If you’ve missed the fuss, this blog by Steve Jones kicked it off.  And winner Sam Stone is now aiming to give her award back in response; though many are urging her not to do so.

Let’s be clear about this. Awards are fun.  Winning an award is nice. It’s not the end of the world, but it’s nice.  And writers don’t deserve this shit.  I have no views on the politics of the affair but I am convinced that Sam Stone is an honourable writer and this should never have been inflicted on her.

During the banquet in which these awards were given, I chatted with writer Maura McHugh about the terrible experiences writers often have in film and television. My killer story was the one about a writer whose short film won an award in France; and the director and producer went and received the award on his behalf – without telling him! Maura topped that with the exact same story about a DIFFERENT short film and a different writer.

There’s a reason writers are paranoid; because they really are treated badly, in so many different ways.  So I hope in future no other writer gets this kind of mauling as a result of a SF/F convention award ceremony.  The people who organise these cons do so out of love – not for money! – and they deserve our support.  But please, let there never be a repeat of this fiasco.

It was  still a great convention.

UPDATE:

This statement from the British Fantasy Society.

Um, if David Howe wasn’t involved in the nominations and selections, then he’s not corrupt.He shouldn’t have resigned; Sam Stone shouldn’t have given her prize back.   Or am I missing something?

It would have been smarter to make a joke of it; ‘This is my girlfriend but I’m NOT on the selection panel so honestly, it’s not as bad as it looks.’

Last weekend I attended my first ever Fantasy Con….I felt like an interloper, a science fiction writer sneaking into the land of dragons and  men with beards and big swords.

Sadly, no dragons; but I think this was my favourite ever con.  It was a small event, with only one panel at a time rather than the complex agendas you get in Eastercon with multiple panels at opposite ends of the hotel.  But the intimacy helped.  I met a lot of established friends and made some new ones.  And, greatest joy of all, this con was in a beautiful location – Brighton with its glorious Regency architecture and adorably naff pier amusement arcades.  The first Eastercon I went to was in that big hotel in Heathrow, in a row of big hotels where airline staff stay; and despite the energy of the conference goers there’s a strange vibe in a place like that. Even worse in terms of ambience was the hotel on a roundabout just outside Bradford that hosted my next Eastercon  (not IN Bradford, a beautiful city).  And earlier this year I went to Eastercon in Birmingham, near the NEC; there was a lake outside the hotel with ducks but it was all utterly false and soulless; an artefect created by designers anxious to make the area feel ‘real’. It’s not – the National Exhibition Centre buildings have all the atmosphere of Heathrow at three in the morning.  And being there felt like being an extra in The Truman Show.

So as I say, this was a con set in the ‘real’ world.  And for me, it wasn’t a business trip – I wasn’t there to network or sell books.  I just wanted to go, in order to enjoy myself . A liberating feeling.

I’ve been looking at bloggers describing their own experience of the con, which featured a  lively disco and the ribald burlesque in which apart from scantily clad ladies brandishing tentacles there was a man who ripped apart a toy rabbit and ate its heart.  I missed both events I’m afraid.  Some, like Simon Unsworth, took a while to get into the swing of things. Others, like Floor to Ceiling Books, challenged aspects of the content.   Most of us, like Rob Spalding, spent rather too long in the bar.  And I enjoyed Danie Ware’s beautifully illustrated blog a great pic  of everyone’s hero Brian Aldiss – Most Special of the Special Guests of Honour – book signing.

I met some fellow SF authors like Ian Whates and Jaine Fenn; failed to meet some friends like Jon Courtenay Grimwood who I saw in the bar when I arrived but who had gone by the time I emerged from a long discussion with my pal Archie Tait.  I re-encountered Graham Joyce, nominated for a British Fantasy Award, who in my view is one of the finest authors working in the fantasy genre; though if you quiz him, he admits that what he does is not REALLY fantasy.  And I had the great delight of attending a panel of screenwriters bitching gloriously about their industry, and mine: Stephen Gallagher, Stephen Volk, Pete Atkins and Peter Finch. I’d never met any of them before but I share mutual friends with both Volk and Gallagher.  And Stephen Gallagher and I also shared a panel on the best and worst films of 2011, with Anne Billson and Kim Newman (whose Victorian horror novels are very close to my heart – do read Anno Dracula which Titan are now publishing, but remember that The Bloody Red Baron is EVEN BETTER.)

Mike Carey was there – also nominated for a British Fantasy Award – he’s one of the nicest and most inspirational writers I know.  I spent a very pleasant couple of hours with steampunk author Stephen Hunt and the Angry Robot himself, Lee Harris. Maura McHugh, the witty and wise  comic book writer and screenwriter from Ireland, shared a table with me at the banquet.  Meg Davies the agent was on a number of panels; and Jo Fletcher launched her new imprint Jo Fletcher Books at this con, which means I have a FREE BAG with her company’s name on it.  Freebies matter!

Why did I enjoy it so much?  Partly I suspect because I didn’t treat it as ‘work’, which is what often happens when writers go to conventions.  We hustle to be on panels, we do book signings, we hope to sell books.  Well this was a fantasy convention and I’m an SF writer so I didn’t worry about any of that. And so I just enjoyed myself, drank moderately but without cessation, and touched base with the fantasy and SF community in the most creative of ways.  I came back fired up, with a list of books I need to read and an even longer list of books I want to write.

Thanks to the organisers…and look forward to the next one.

Today’s favourite is Beelzebub, Prince of Demons.  A familiar name, but did you know he looks like this?

Beelzebub is Lord of the Flies; and when he doesn’t look like this he is a monstrous being who sits on a high throne; and has a swollen face and chest, huge nostrils, horns, bat wings, duck feet, a lion’s tail and hair.

You’ve heard the phrase ‘ugly as sin’? That was this baby.

Beelzebub was the demon of choice for witches in their Sabbats; they would summon him by shouting ‘Beelzebub goity, Beelzebub beyty’ (meaning Beelzebub above, Beelzebub below) and then he would appear and, um, fornicate with them all.

He was also, according to some sources, the most powerful demon in Hell, outranking even Lucifer.  According to the Gospel of Nicodemus, this happened when Satan rashly dragged Jesus to Hell after the crucifixion, despite being warned not to do so by his ugly-as-sin second in command Beelzebub.  Jesus arrived in hell, ran amok, trampled over Satan, broke the chains of the imprisoned souls and rescued the trapped saints, then departed.

Now THAT’S a movie.  Brad Pitt as Jesus.  Paul Giametti as Satan, thwarted.

After this fiasco, Satan felt obliged to hand over control of his empire to the wiser head of Beelzebub, with the words ‘Satan the Prince shall be subject to thy dominion forever’.

Now we’re into gangster movie territory.  Beelzebub is Michael Corleone, Satan is Don Corleone choosing retirement.

This Prince of Demons, and lord of hell, and shag-meister extraordinaire has a predominant place in demonological lore, and was one of the many demons bound by that old bugger Solomon (who commanded armies of demons and djinns to build his temple; imagine Richard Rogers doing that.)  He is, frankly, the most powerful and evil mythological demon of all time.  Beelzebub versus Count Dracula; no contest!  And any magician foolish enough to summon him risks apoplexy, epilepsy and strangulation; plus, if you summon Beelzebub you will end up with a giant slavering fly in your living room, crapping upon the carpet; try explaining THAT to the wife.

There have of course been many demons featured in novels and movies and TV series.  My favourites include Japhrimel, in Lilith Saintcrow’s Dante Valentine books, Hell Boy (the comics more than the films),  and the Meg Masters demon in Supernatural.  That show also features the  green-eyed demon Azazel , who in real life (?) looked like this.

Azazel was also the inspiration for the mutant-demon character Azazel in  the X-Men, who looks like this:

And, for the hell of it, let’s end on Hell Boy:

Here’s a truly awesome book trailer for Brent Weeks’ new book The Black Prism, courtesy of our very own Orbit Books:

Now all us other Orbit writers are going to want one like it…

Here’s a bigger pic of the cover:

I’ve just been looking at the schedule for the forthcoming Fantasy Con in Brighton which I’ll be attending (September 30th – October 2nd).   Guest speakers include  Christopher Paolini, Gwyneth Jones and Joe Abercrombie and the extra-special guest is Brian Aldiss.  And there are lots of goodies, including Saturday  masterclasses from Mike Carey on how to write for comics and Meg Davies on How to Write a Book That’s Impossible to Film. Er, Hell Ship Meg.

There’s also an Artist’s Row and I took this opportunity to look at the website of one of the featured artists, Ben Baldwin. He has some fabulous images on his website.  And here’s one of my favourites.

Last week I suggested we were living in the Age of X – at a time when the X-Men are the dominant heroes of our culture, and X-Men movies are coming thick and fast.

I’ve now seen the new Captain America movie – Captain America: The First Avenger.  Clever title huh – you see the way they sneak in the fact this is the first in a long-running  franchise?  Imagine if they’d called the first Harry Potter movie:  Harry Potter: The First of Many Adventures Which Will Allow Lots of British Actors to Buy Conservatories.

Anyway – it’s fab.  It’s fast, funny, delicious, and the 3D action is the best I’ve seen – lots of scenes in the Alps, and the Cap swinging through the air, and hurling his shield at the audience.  I’ve been getting bored with 3D of late, but here it’s used with genuine finesse, and with a shallow focus effect I’ve not seen in 3D before  - ie when the main character is in focus, but the background is slightly out of focus – which is true to the way our eyes work and gives a lot more texture to an image.

The director is Joe Johnston who did the under-rated The Wolfman, in which Anthony Hopkins exudes Gothic menace in a Port Talbot accent. The writers are Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely, who worked on the Narnia screenplays.  Chris Evans plays the Captain;  the Brit actress Hayley Attwell is superb as the British agent who befriends him; and Hugo Weaving is suitably evil as the Red Skull. My pal Priscilla John did the casting.

I don’t think it’s any kind of a spoiler to reveal that the film takes place in the 1940s, with weedy Steve Rogers turned into a hunk by a super-soldier machine.  It’s a brilliant concept, which so far as I’m aware doesn’t feature in any of the comics (but to be sure of that I’d have to ask Mike Carey…)  And it immediately makes me love the central character; Captain America is no longer a jock, he’s an underdog, the ‘ little guy’ who gets beaten about but never gives up.  Briliantly, Bucky who in the comics is a kid sidekick now becomes a hunk (played by Sebastian Stan) who is appalled when the girls start ignoring him and talking to STEVE.

There’s another clever plot twist which I won’t reveal, which explains the costume and made me smile; and a ‘fondue’ joke that delighted me.  It’s a clever and witty script that allows us to love the good guys and hate the bad guys without checking in our brains at the popcorn franchise stall.  And when Hayley cries…boy, I was lost.

The genius of the film is that it never made me feel uncomfortable about enjoying a movie about an icon of American imperialism which, ahem, this actually is.  Because there’s no doubt that in real politics and in the real world this is the Age of America.  And Captain America exemplifies that spirit, not always in a good way.  The shameless and admirable liberalism of the Marvel Universe has for me always sat uneasily with a superhero who is defined by the American flag – especially now, in the age of  Guantanamo Bay.

Look, I know – it’s only a movie!  But I would argue  that the myth of American rightness and American virtue and the belief of some Americans that they have a (literally)  god-given right to  kick ass whenever they  feel like has become one of the most dangerous follies of our time.  Balanced against that is the fact (or rather, opinion, ie mine)  that in certain arenas, and at certain times, America has used that power for good, and has acted as a stabilising factor in world politics – and I’d support that totally. But the growth of the Tea Party with their zany ideas and their absolute commitment to protecting the privileges of the billionaire elite shows how dangerous it is when people start believing their own lies.

And the makers of this movie are savvy to all that – and being children of the Marvel Empire, which  for generations has created kick-ass superhero stories with moral integrity, in a world where racism, sexism and Other-ism are never on the agenda, they have taken care to make us love Captain America without waving the American flag in our faces.  The period setting helps in that; and the fantastic closing credits, with 40s poster images, adds to the message; this is a movie ABOUT the myth of America, it’s not a movie which is peddling the myth of America.

Having said all that, Captain America has never been my favourite hero; and I would love to see some different myths out there.  Buffy was a Myth; a Zeitgeist-defining creation who pioneered the idea that cute ditsy girls can also be super-smart AND kick ass.  Storm (Ororo) in the X-Men has for me a similar Zeitgeist-defining feminist quality to her; though the movies have shamelessly used her as no more than eye-candy.  But I am starting to yearn for new Mythic Characters – not Captain America, not Conan, not Professor X, but a genuinely new icon for the age.  As Indiana Jones was in the 70s – a retro creation, but (in its time) an original one.

Still, for now, do go and see the Cap..it’s a great ride.

Now some photos….

Hayley Attwell as Agent Carter; how to hail a taxi in New York

Captain America, after being injected with loads of muscles

Captain America wondering why he's the only one wearing a ridiculous uniform that makes him an easy target for snipers

The Red Skull wearing his Hugo Weaving Mask, wondering why his Rubik's cube doesn't have any coloured squares

A stand in with his back to the camera, killing time while Chris Evans goes for a wee

A huge envelope arrived through my door this week, and inside were Sharrock, Jak and Sai-ias – the three protagonists of my novel Hell Ship.

This was the audio book version, made by Recorded Books in New York, and narrated by Gideon Emery, Bianca Amata and Timothy Reynolds.  To my astonishment, it’s unexpurgated – which means not a word has been cut, not even the very many alien swear words.

As a radio dramatist, I love hearing my word spoken aloud; so I have a real soft spot for this audiobook. And to whet your appetite, here (once again) are  three excerpts from the book.  It features Sharrock narrating the start of the book; a short clip introducing Jak; then a much longer excerpt from Sai-ias, which is one of my favourite things ever.

Here they are:

Sharrock

If the audio widget above doesn’t work for any reason, click here to download the MP3 file.

Jak

If the audio widget above doesn’t work for any reason, click here to download the MP3 file.

Sai-ias

If the audio widget above doesn’t work for any reason, click here to download the MP3 file.

A little while back I read a fascinating series of articles on SF Signal (Part One here, Part Two here) about the Death of Science Fiction – which, like the death of Mark Twain, has been greatly exaggerated.

This is one of those great debates in the genre.  Does the lack of interest in the space program mean the death of science fiction? Does the growth of pseudo-science mean that science fiction no longer has a place in our culture? Or, the nitty-gritty one, does the fact that fantasy novels outsell SF novels by a factor of many mean that SF writers are wasting their time in a dying genre?  This was (put more brilliantly than my crude summary) the argument of Mark Charon Newton a while back, which I responded to in a blog of my own.

In his two highly articulate SF Signal pieces, John H. Stevens takes an unusual approach to this argument. He doesn’t ask if the death of science fiction is really occuring – it’s not, so long  people still read and write SF – but he asks WHY is the question always being asked?

His response, which is erudite but rather brilliant I feel, is that:

‘My proposal, at least for now, is that the fables of this death and their effects on the readers and writers who narrate, read, and respond to them are attempts to grasp, codify, and represent the mythogenic rejuvenation of SF. These narrative episodes are part of SF’s mythology, reiterating and reestablishing aspects of it, seeking to understand SF’s storied, contested, confabulated history and the genre’s frequent renewal by its practitioners and readers. SF is based less on clear lines of relation to the past than other genres, is much more mutable and predatory, and relies on the redevelopment and proliferation of mythical ties and sources in the past and linkages laterally to contemporary genres and trends to maintain both its longevity and its freshness.’

Whew!

He also says:

‘Talking about SF is often as important to many producers of the literature and its adherents as the production and reception of the literature itself. The far-flung fandom community is bonded not by just what they read, but by what they say about what they read, and this holds true for individuals in all social positions, from writer to editor to reader (which, at the end of the day, everyone is).

What brings people together in conversation is not just love of fantastical stories or the pleasure of strange ideas, but also moments of contention about their meanings and broader significance. “The Death of Science Fiction” creates a sort-of ritual discursive space for this; as Brooks Landon noted “[s]ome of these considerations are laments, some are warnings, and some are celebrations, but all posit some form of end to SF, or at least to SF as commonly recognized.” This flexibility creates potential for a lot of debate and for reification of positions as people try to predict this death or refute it.’

Double Whew!  Serious discourse of the brain-hurting variety; but I do see what he means. And I think it’s fascinating that he’s describing a debate about science in terms that are more congruent to the world of fantasy – using words like myth, regeneration, and rejuvenation; science fiction as the Fisher King who dies and is reborn.

There is a mythical, irrational aspect to our love of science fiction in other words; and fandom itself is a participation in a mythic process of belonging.  SF/F writers create worlds; readers inhabit them; and create ‘meta-worlds’ of their own through fora and journals and blogs.  We belong to the world of SF/F,  in a way that’s comparable to the way that Bilbo Baggins belongs to the world of the Shire.

I can’t believe I used the word ‘meta’ then.  You know what I mean.

Die-hard SF purists might well rebut this entire argument.  Because there is a pure intellectual exhilaration in the original, pure ‘hard SF’ project of the 30s and 40s and 50s  that was all about predicting the future, extrapolating social trends; guessing amazing things that might happen.  And there was a time when there were genuinely NEW ideas in hard SF – Robert Heinlein’s story ‘By His Bootstraps’ for instance was, for me, my first introduction to the concept of temporal paradox caused by time travel; now it’s the staple of every DR WHO episode.  Generation ships or colony ships are now  a cliche of science fiction; but once upon a time, someone wrote about this idea for the very first time.

Originality and novelty were once, in other words, key elements of the science fictional project. But for now – until aliens are discovered for real – it’s hard to think of a modern SF novel that has a scientifically credible extrapolative  idea we’ve never seen before.  There’s just too much darn stuff published; SF is now like the romance story – there are only so many ways of being in love, and they’re all already known about.

So  what now makes science fiction unique? Anything? Nothing?  Does it actually need to be unique or fresh at all? Can’t we just happily carry on reading variations on themes and enjoy them for their own sake?

Well actually yes of course we can.  There’s plenty of stuff I read and love that isn’t especially fresh or new; and I enjoy it BECAUSE  of the sense of the familiar.

But I’m attempting to reach for a brainy idea here.  So stick with me a moment.

What Stevens is essentially arguing is that myth is at the heart of science fiction fandom; and by extension, is at the heart of science fiction itself.  ’Myth’ is a slippery word at the best of times – it can mean ‘the collective unconsciousness of mankind’ but that’s a fairly woolly and unscientific hypothesis really.   But in looser terms, we all know that certain ideas and concepts and stories have a ‘mythic resonance’.  STAR WARS for instance did have huge mythic resonance when it was first released, and ever since – and it’s a movie based very closely on the ideas of myth propounded by Joseph W. Campbell in his book THE HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES.  Lucas himself wrote:

‘I  came to the conclusion after American Graffiti that what’s valuable for me is to set standards, not to show people the world the way it is…around the period of this realization…it came to me that there really was no modern use of mythology…The Western was possibly the last generically American fairy tale, telling us about our values. And once the Western disappeared, nothing has ever taken its place. In literature we were going off into science fiction…so that’s when I started doing more strenuous research on fairy tales, folklore, and mythology, and I started reading Joe’s books. Before that I hadn’t read any of Joe’s books…It was very eerie because in reading The Hero with a Thousand Faces I began to realize that my first draft of Star Wars was following classic motifs…so I modified my next draft [of Star Wars] according to what I’d been learning about classical motifs and made it a little bit more consistent…I went on to read ‘The Masks of God’ and many other books.’

So following that idea:

The Golden Age science fiction novels embodied the myths of Exploration and Adventure; they were, all too often, imbued with the can-do optimism of Americans who wanted mankind to conquer new worlds the way the settlers had conquered the West. [MASSIVE generalisation, I know, but the American optimism of  great like Asimov, Heinlein and Niven is a huge element in their appeal.]

Cyberpunk is a different myth, a different aesthetic; cynical, modern, challenging.

But what do we have now?

Well, sifting through books I’ve read recently, we have ZOO CITY, an award-winning great SF novel that’s really more fantasy, written by the South African Lauren Beukes, about a world in which criminals are ‘animalled’.

We have LIGHTBORN by Tricia Sullivan, an award-nominated fine novel about ‘shine’, a scientific extrapolation that allows minds to be expanded; but which is really more an atmospheric exploration of characters in crisis.

We have THE CITY AND THE CITY, by China Mieville, a fine SF novel which is really more a fantasy novel since there’s no scientific explanation for its premise; except, in my view, it’s really more a magic realistic fable after all.

And there’s THE WIND-UP GIRL by Paolo Bacigalupi, a near future  thriller extrapolative thriller about a world in which genetic experimentation has screwed up crops.  It’s been mildly criticised by some for being ‘overfamiliar’ in its concepts – in other words, it’s all been done and said before, in terms of the actual extrapolations. But it’s a hugely acclaimed book, absolutely deservedly so, because of the richness of the world-building, the brilliance of the writing; and the mythic power of the storytelling.  [I've no idea WHY it's mythic, it just is.]

And there’s Peter F. Hamilton’s DREAMING VOID trilogy, the purest of space opera by one of the the most established of SF writers – which is a) brilliant and b) full to the brim of mythic resonance and actual magic.

This is a random sample – I spend more time writing than reading so I rely on critics like John Stevens to provide the definitive overviews of these things. But I’m fumbling for a general conclusion here, and it’s this:

1) There’s no such thing as Science Fiction any more.  Or if there is, it’s a subgenre not a genre.  I say this because so many of the best recent, and best ancient SF novels, mingle fantasy with science fiction shamelessly. Anne McCaffrey does it in her Dragonworld Books; Peter F. Hamilton does it, as noted above.  According to some, the real genre is speculative fiction.  However,  efforts to rebrand ‘SF’ to mean ‘Speculative Fiction’ have died the death; it’s like trying to replace English with Esperanto. Nevertheless, it’s a worthy cause.   Because the things that connect science fiction, heroic fantasy, urban fantasy and certain kinds of horror are far greater that those things which divide them.

2) Almost by definition, all hugely popular fiction speaks to the zeitgeist of its age – from Harry Potter (who writes about magic in the ordinary world) to Dan Brown (who writes about dark hidden conspiracies which don’t exist)  to Stieg Larsson (who writes about the dark hidden conspiracies which DO exist.)  By reading popular fiction, therefore, we are exploring the preoccupations of the age in which we live; as well as participating in those preoccupations.

3) Since werewolves, vampires and wizards are so dominant in popular fiction, that tells us we live in a world in which we yearn for magic, and for better-than-natural sex.

4) ‘Myth’, ultimately, is another name for ‘Story’; and stories are what help define us as communities.  Which brings us back to John Stevens’ argument about ‘mythogenic questions’.

5) There’s a point where generalisations about stuff like this gets a bit silly, and we may have hit that by point 5).  But on a personal note, I would say there are three kinds of novels I read:

a) Fantastic Fiction (aka speculative fiction)

b) Crime Fiction

c) Everything Else

There are still those who use  ‘speculative fiction’ as a  genre definer , but I’ve come to find it a bit arid a term for my taste. So I shall therefore take the initiative in referring to FF when writing about my favourite books, rather than using the clunky acronym SF/F & UF or suchlike.  I am, from now on, an FF writer, not an SF writer.  It’s already of course  used as a genre definition by some websites, and damn it, it has a ring to it.

My rebranding of SF  is a futile thing to do of course, since no one in the real world will pay any attention; but it is a way of highlighting that what truly excites me in science fiction is not the science, it’s the way that the extrapolations of science lead one inevitably into the realms of the fantastic.  Parallel universes; time travel; particles with no mass; quarks; it’s all fantastic, yet real.  Knowing the science is important; just as you’d expect an historical writer to know the facts about the period.  But science IS fantastic; that’s the great appeal.

But urban fantasy also qualifies as FF, since it’s a genre of stories set in a real world with elements of the fantastic.  And heroic fantasy doesn’t count as fantasy if it has no element of the fantastic – GAME OF THRONES without the dragons? Please!  Ursula Le Guin writes fantastic fiction; so does China Mieville; so does Neil Gaiman.

So that’s my counter to John H. Stevens’ Death of Science Fiction article; call it Fantastic Fiction and it’s suddenly it’s part of the dominant genre. And the mythogenic rejuvenation of SF will have led to the creation of a wholly new creature, emerging Phoenix-like from the internet babble.

But, less whimsically, I’m left with questions not answers. What are the new myths that will capture the imagination of our culture?  What are the stories that speak to the zeitgeist? Naturally I have no idea; but if I do find out, I shall start writing them.

And if YOU know, do let me know…

For some time now I’ve been running a feature on my website  called SFF Song of the Week.  Like a bar which sells books and also serves chocolate, this has the merit of combining several really good things under a single roof.  And I’ve invited a number of writer friends and other folk connected with the genre to contribute their choices – as ‘blogjay’ of the week.

The selections  have been fabulous, as you’d expect, with such a huge wealth of science fiction and fantasy related songs to choose from.  But for my money, the intros have been even better than the music – some of them are love poems to favourite songs, many are rich in autobiographical detail, and all offer insights into the writer’s heart and soul.

I relish Mike Cobley’s account of his experiences at University when selecting Space Station Number 5.   Stephen Hunt has written a gorgeous account of his youth as a young geek in love with Sarah Brightman and Hot Gossip; before maturing into the very grown up and sophisticated geek that he now is.  Mike Carey wrote a joyous piece about Genesis, a band who also dominated my teenage years.  Adam Roberts wrote a piece about Gary Numan that made me laugh out loud.  Lilith Saintcrow chose a filk song that made me laugh out loud even louder.

I have to confess that I’m not, myself, a great musical aficionado; I love music, but I can never remember the names of tracks, and I’m never the one who knows in which year a particular single was released. I’m not like Al Reynolds, with his encyclopedic knowledge of cutting edge bands, and I certainly can’t compete with the coolest of musical dudes like Richard Morgan and  Jon Courtenay Grimwood and Paul Raven; or  indeed Adam Roberts and James Lovegrove,  who once had plans to write the definitive  book about SFF music (and I hope one day they do.)

No, I’m just someone who  love particular songs inordinately and excessively, and will play them endlessly over and over while running or at the gym.  Things I’ve Seen by Spooks was one such song that carved grooves into my brain; at one point, I even quoted from it in Debatable Space, before rights issues forced me to pen some original lyrics.  Crazy by Gnarls Barkley is another song that I became besotted by  - no rude comments please! – and I Put a Spell on You by Nina Simone has cast a similar spell more recently.  Darkness at the Edge of Town by Springsteen is tattooed into my frontal lobe;  as is Maria Maria by Carlos Santana; not to mention Hope by Shaggy.  I listen to lots; but some songs I love so much it hurts.

These days, I must admit,  I’m one of the iPod Shuffle generation – skipping from Dad Rock to Avril Lavigne (my daughter loads it on to my iPod for long trips) to the Hold Steadies to Shakira to Beyonce & Destiny’s Child (*blush*) to Theolonius Monk.  But my teenage  passions, in the 70s, were the prog rocks bands like Yes (whose Starship Trooper was selected by Ian Whates, to the great annoyance of Pete Hamilton) , Genesis (Carey’s choice),  Pink Floyd (strangely overlooked), Bowie (thanks James Lovegrove!) and mind-numbing  stuff like Black Sabbath (I think Paranoid was my first ever album purchase).  Patti Smith at Knebworth lingers in my memory as one of those great moments in growing up.   Brand X were at the same gig, I seem to recall.  Tangerine Dream (chosen by Stephen Palmer) in Cardiff. Blue Oyster Cult in Swansea (why has no-one picked Don’t Fear the Reaper?).  10 CC at Cardiff Castle (look, what can I say, I was a total nerd and really loved them, then.)

Frankly, no music I’ve heard since has QUITE  the same potency as the teen year faves – or maybe I just don’t listen as much, or with such quasi-religious intensity.  Then, I could listen to an album ten times in a week.  Now, it’s 2 or 3 times then it goes on to Shuffle.  So I have great sympathy with the blogjays who travel down the Nostalgia Road when making their choices.

But the younger and/or cooler blogjays are always there to freshen my references. I’d never heard  Feist until Nicole Peeler chose her version of the  awesomely evocative old English ballad Sea Lion Woman; listen to the song, read Nicole’s books, and you’ll FEEL the synergy. My producer friend Archie Tait (from the hippy generation, but totally up to date with his musical preferences) chose Yoshimi and the Pink Robots by the Flaming Lips, which I’d never heard before and which really wowed me. And Jesse Bullington introduced me to the band Bal-Sagoth, who are SERIOUS fantasy dudes, and that was a real eye-opener.

Because of my own  time constraints, I’ve not managed to run one of these songs EVERY week – but I’m hoping to up the frequency in the next year or so.  Until I run out of writers; or run out of songs with SF or fantasy elements; which I suspect will not be for a very long time.

Anyway, if you want to listen in, click on this link.

And here is my selection, not in any order, of my Top Ten SFF Songs of the Week from Debatable Spaces.

After the Gold Rush by Neil Young: Selected by Peter F. Hamilton – THIS WEEK’S SELECTION!!!!

Beat the Devil’s Tattoo by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club: Selected by Richard Morgan

Manhattan Project by Rush: Selected by Ken MacLeod

Wings by The Fall: Selected by Alastair Reynolds

Black Hole Sun by Soundgarden: Selected by Tricia Sullivan

Time by Tom Waits: Selected by Robert Jackson Bennett

Banned from Argo by Leslie Fish: Selected by Lilith Saintcrow

Sweet Thing by David Bowie: Selected by James Lovegrove

Marquee Moon by Television: Selected by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

Sea Lion Woman by Feist: Selected by Nicole Peeler

Are Friends Electric?  by Gary Numan: Selected by Adam Roberts

That’s a top 10 consisting of 11 choices; in hommage to Spinal Tap.

(This feature originally appeared on the Orbit website, and can still be found there if, duh, you want to read it again. – Ed).

This is the longest of the excerpts provided by Recorded Books from their audio book version of Hell Ship.  It’s narrated by Sai-ias, who is the heroine of the story  – a complex, powerful, tenderhearted alien from a universe not our own.

There are a LOT of universes not our own in Hell Ship.  You won’t meet Flanagan, or Lena, or Saunders, or Hooperman, or Version 43 in this story.  There’s no Cheo, no Galactic Corporation.  No, this is a story of terror and treachery that takes us on a journey through the multiverses,  in the company of a ship of aliens who are also alien to each other. It’s a big canvas piece.  And it’s dark, and serious, though leavened I hope with humour, and heart. 

It’s a story about violence, and pacifism, and love, and hate, and weird monsters.

If you hate spoilers, don’t listen to this clip until you’ve read the book; it’s a revealing moment in the story, but I can’t resist playing it because of the wonderful way Bianca  Amato voices the role of Sai-ias. 

If the audio widget above doesn’t work for any reason, click here to download the MP3 file.

Yesterday I played a brief excerpt from the audio book of Hell Ship, featuring Sharrock, one of the book’s three narrators. 

Today, meet Jak. Jak is an alien from a universe not our own, and belongs to a society which values beauty and grace and the art of trading.   For various reasons he has abandoned his position in society to become the lowly Master of an Explorer craft, whose mission is to travel the stars, and there to seek out new civilisations, and get the better of them in sly negotiations.

Thanks to those kind people at Recorded Books, who gave me excerpts from their forthcoming audio book, here’s a mission taken from the Explorer’s log.  The narrator is Timothy Reynolds.

If the audio widget above doesn’t work for any reason, click here to download the MP3 file.

Today is the UK publication date of HELL SHIP.  And I thought I’d celebrate by introducing you to Sharrock, one of the three main characters in the story.

Sharrock has in fact already featured in a short story in the Further Conflicts collection, edited by the magnificent Ian Whates. He’s an alien from a universe not our own, from a culture devoted to war.  He’s a brawny, muscular kind of fellow, an epic hero no less; but with a whisper of a sense of humour.  By the time the story of Hell Ship begins, Sharrock has fought many wars and survived many great adventures.

And then it all turns to shit.  As we find out in the opening chapter, narrated here beautifully by Gideon Emery in the audio book version of the book which has been made by Recorded Books in New York, who have very kindly sent me three excerpts to play to you.

Here’s Sharrock:

If the audio widget above doesn’t work for any reason, click here to download the MP3 file.

Charlie Stross has a new book out and he’s written a fascinating piece about its themes over at the Orbit site, including the technology of near-future policing, which you can find here.  

I was on a fascinating panel at the last Eastercon with Peter Hamilton and Nigel Furlong on the theme of the near future and crime in particular.  Peter talked about his new book which is considerably more near-future than his last few, and which has led him into heavy research into future police methods. And I talked about my experiences shadowing the police on murder and robbery cases, while researching for cop shows on TV.  That was SOME time ago, in the technological dark ages.  Since then CAD rooms have acquired touch screen computers, coppers carry video cameras and surveillance systems are now awesome. 

It’s a truism to say the future is with us already.  But it’s also worth bearing in mind that there’s always secret stuff out there too, that we DON’T know about. 

Except, I’m guessing that Charlie Stross DOES know about it…

Heard of a van that is loaded with weapons,
packed up and ready to go
Heard of some gravesites, out by the highway,
a place where nobody knows
The sound of gunfire, off in the distance,
I’m getting used to it now
Lived in a brownstore, lived in the ghetto,
I’ve lived all over this town

This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco,
this ain’t no fooling around
No time for dancing, or lovey dovey,
I ain’t got time for that now

Transmit the message, to the receiver,
hope for an answer some day
I got three passports, a couple of visas,
you don’t even know my real name
High on a hillside, the trucks are loading,
everything’s ready to roll
I sleep in the daytime, I work in the nightime,
I might not ever get home

This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco,
this ain’t no fooling around
This ain’t no mudd club, or C. B. G. B.,
I ain’t got time for that now
Heard about Houston? Heard about Detroit?
Heard about Pittsburgh, P. A.?
You oughta know not to stand by the window
somebody might see you up there
I got some groceries, some peant butter,
to last a couple of days
But I ain’t got no speakers, ain’t got no
headphones, ain’t got no records to play

Why stay in college? Why go to night school?
Gonna be different this time
Can’t write a letter, can’t send a postcard,
I can’t write nothing at all
This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco,
this ain’t no fooling around
I’d like to kiss you, I’d love you hold you
I ain’t got no time for that now

Trouble in transit, got through the roadblock,
we blended with the crowd
We got computer, we’re tapping pohne lines,
I know that ain’t allowed
We dress like students, we dress like housewives,
or in a suit and a tie
I changed my hairstyle, so many times now,
I don’t know what I look like!
You make me shiver, I feel so tender,
we make a pretty good team
Don’t get exhausted, I’ll do some driving,
you ought to get some sleep
Get you instructions, follow directions,
then you should change your address
Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day,
whatever you think is best
Burned all my notebooks, what good are
notebooks? They won’t help me survive
My chest is aching, burns like a furnace,
the burning keeps me alive
Try to stay healthy, physical fitness,
don’t want to catch no disease
Try to be careful, don’t take no chances,
you better watch what you say

It’s a bleak time – it’s not so long ago Books Etc and Borders were thriving and now both have gone. Waterstone’s is still standing but is going through a rocky patch.  And with e-book sales booming, one can’t help but wonder if this will be the end of the traditional bookshop.

But if so – does that matter? Isn’t this just evolution in action?  Frankly, on the basis of the account above, Barnes & Noble DESERVE to go under.  And if they do, smarter people will set up bookshops that customers CAN use.  That’s how capitalism works; survival of the most shopped-at.

Of course, I love bookshops.  For me bookshops are the equivalent of pool-halls; they are the places where I misspent my youth, in a totally uncool and unrebellious fashion.  But I have to admit, it’s a while since I’ve been in a bookshop. The last time was a month ago, in Oxford, when I popped in to the best bookshop in the world – Blackwell’s on the High.  Floors and floors of magnificent books! This is a shop that was terrific even BEFORE Waterstone’s pioneered nice shops with coffee shops. (Blackwell’s doesn’t have one of those, but it does have a pub next door when I misspent many of my University years.)

But the cruel truth is – if bookshops die out, IT’S ALL MY FAULT. Yes, I personally will be totally to blame; along with all the others like me who are hooked on Amazon.

Amazon!  It’s the Devil isn’t it? All that power.  It’s like Starbuck’s, if Starbuck’s sold all the coffee in the world.  But it works. I bought 3 books on Amazon last week in about 30 seconds.  I saw a Dan Abnett (Embedded) in the Dealer’s Room at Eastercon, being sold at the Angry Robot stall by my pal Lee Harris and I thought – must buy that on Amazon where it’ll be two or three quid cheaper. So I did!  Thus chiselling Lee, Dan, and the entire imprint out of a few vital pence of profit. 

Then, also on that same day last week, I saw Adam Roberts’ name on a blog, and I thought – must buy New Model Army, which I saw in Waterstone’s recently, but it’ll be cheaper on Amazon! So I did.  I also bought another book. I’ve no idea what it is.  It came in the post yesterday in a brown parcel.  I get post!  I can’t tell you how much I enjoy getting post, and now rarely a day passes without Amazon packages arriving.

This is BETTER THAN GOING TO BOOKSHOPS.  Instead of indulging my ‘browsing in bookshops’ addiction, I am indulging my ‘getting lots of post’  addiction.  And, as I’ve indicated, if you browse in bookshops but THEN buy on Amazon,  you get the best of both worlds.

But, of course, bookshops will go out of business.

I can still remember WHY I switched my allegiance to Amazon.  It wasn’t to buy fiction books – because this was at a stage when my conscience wouldn’t have allowed such a thing. No it was the day I got a letter from Tom Stoppard (swank, swank, what a name dropper I am!) which was in fact a mass circular sent to all the members of the London Library, explaining why the subscription had to go up a zillion per cent. 

Now for those not familiar with it, the London Library is a sacred institution, as hallowed as the British Museum and the National Gallery. It’s not a public body; it’s a private lending library, based in St James’ s Square in London, and is the first port of call for many writers researching their novels and non-fiction books.  The site is vast, the building is old and beautiful, and it’s a richly anachronistic place. In fact, because the filing system was never updated, the geography section is still divided up into Bosnia, Serbia etc – BECAUSE THEY NEVER BOTHERED CHANGING IT WHEN YUGOSLAVIA WAS CREATED.  Now that’s just cool.  Television writer John Wilsher (who I worked with on The Bill many years ago) did a fabulous episode of New Tricks set in the London Library. If you go there often enough, you’ll meet P.D. James in the lift.  (She spends her days there, going up and down.)

And for years I used this library as my resource for non-fiction books – historical books (on Marco Polo, Newton etc etc), science books, philosophy books, crime books, you name it.  The subscription was a couple of hundred pounds a year but you could keep the books for as long as you liked.  So it was convenient, cheap; and it made me feel like a real writer.

Then the (cloth-headed) decison was made to double the subscription, but with a special clause whereby ‘deserving’ writers who weren’t earning much could get a discount.  How Dickensian!  And I thought – sod this.  And I started getting all my non-fiction on Amazon – often second hand.  I’ve now got towers of books in my study on Iraq, Nazi Germany, serial killers, demonology, you name it  - and they’re cheap, I get to own them, and ordering couldn’t be more convenient.

But in the process, I lost a bit of magic; the London Library magic. 

And now I’m using Amazon for fiction, I’ve forgotten the joy of browsing in bookshops and actually buying books there.  I’ve sold my soul to that old devil Amazon.

My fault! All my fault…!

By the way, copies of Debatable Space, Red Claw, Version 43 and Hell Ship are available here!

A big box arrived in the post this week with first copies of Hell Ship.  It’s a wonderfully cool cover – lurid purple – with the words ALIEN, INVADERS AND PIRATES IN SPACE! blazoned over it.  This is, believe it or not, my most serious and restrained book to date.  A meditation on mortality and the nature of civilisation. But, since it’s a Palmer novel, there’s action galore and also much swearing.  (Of the translated-from-an-alien-language variety.)

There’s also going to be an audio book version  of Hell Ship – which really appeals to me because of my background in radio.  In fact, I had a crazy and fascinating phone conversation a few weeks ago with David from Recorded Books in New York, the company who are making it.  They were just about to start recording and they wanted to check how the names are all pronounced.

Oh my goodness!  As if I would know.

The main characters (who each narrate their sections) are easy. Sai-ias is SIGH-EE-AS. Sharrock is, um, Sharrock. And Jak is pronounced Jak – like Jack – without the ‘c’!

It gets trickier the further you go into the book through. Here’s my favourite tongue twisting section:

 My troops awaited my instructions; I scanned them carefully, looking for traces of fear or of independent thought.  A hundred Kindred warriors stood with me in the hull, together with eleven giant sentients. Balach, Morio,  Tamal, Sheenam, Goay, Leirak, Tarrroth,     Shseil, Dokdrr, Ma.

            And Cuzco.

Aargh! Shseil! Dodrr! Where did these names come from!

For those who aren’t familiar with the story of Hell Ship – which is basically everyone apart from me, since it hasn’t come out yet – it features aliens from many different universes who co-exist on an alien ship called, you guessed it, the Hell Ship.

In the audio version, the Sharrock sections are narrated by Gideon Emory, an actor I know from his role in the splendid heist movie Takers. The books narrated by Jak are read by Timothy Reynolds. And as Sai-ias, we have an actor who has recently featured in the US TV series Blue Bloods, Bianca Amato.  (Who doesn’t, you’ll notice, look at all like the hideously ugly many-tentacled Sai-ias.)

Banks is one of the greats of modern SF;  and Simon’s a rising star in the genre and a wonderful bloke; I thoroughly enjoyed meeting him at our last two Eastercons, and he even gave me some flapjacks. (Now that’s a man who comes prepared)

The discussion between these two scribes ranges far and wide and deep; so if you haven’t read it, do so!  There’s nowt happening here except me blathering.

C.P. Snow once wrote about the ‘two cultures’ – arts graduates and science graduates – and that seems to be part of the cultural divide that  B & M are discussing.  It’s partly about the fact that people in power know nothing about science or its fundamental principles. And it’s partly a snobbery against certain kinds of genre fiction – what Stephen Hunt calls ‘ the sneer’.  Eithe way, it’s us and them; us being the good guys, and them being people who disparage science, the scientific method, and all forms of extrapolative and speculative  fiction, including those featuring space battles and wizards.

The prevailing ignorance about science is one of the greatest horrors of our age in my view. It explains the insanity of climate change denial – the belief that something can be denied and refuted WITHOUT EVIDENCE.  Any argument that is built upon lies and stupidity is, in my opinion, contrary to the scientific approach – of finding out what is true without imposing answers upon reality.

The sneering against science fiction is a smaller crime.  And I’m beginning to wonder if it’s any longer possible for SF fans to feel like the underdog. The massive coverage in the Guardian a weekend or so ago of science fiction and its authors has redressed years of neglect. Banks himself gets major critical attention, as do China Mieville and Ursula Le Guin and Neil Gaiman and a sprinkling of others, whenever they publish a book. The fact that Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights trilogy DIDN’T win the Booker Prize still rankles with me, but it was at least considered prize-worthy by many.

So I wouldn’t say we’re THAT hard done by; the sneerers are looking sillier and sillier by the day.

But that’s only a minor part of what Banks & Morden chat about.  Do, as I say, check it out, if you haven’t already.  Great stuff.

She’s a stone cold killer, a rebel and a bibliophile.

Now how cool is THAT!

The cover is also awesome; but it hasn’t been launched yet so I can’t show it to you.  Soon.

The T Party sesssion was an eye-opener for me in terms of the quality of the work, and the exemplary, detailed, utterly professional and extremely insightful level of critiquing.  This is a great Writers Group and I support it; and I hope to go along to one of their sessions at the George Pub in London sometime.

I also took part in a panel called Writing 101: How to Become a Writer, with Jaine Fenn and Stephen Deas. We all talked about our different experiences in becoming writers and tried to pass on tips and words of wisdom. Jaine’s break came after a meeting with a commissioining editor at an Eastercon; Stephen’s cunning plan was to self-publish a book which, darn it, turned out to be so good he got an agent and a publisher. My approach was many-fold, since I have ‘become’ a writer many times. First I was a TV and film writer (my strategy; become a script editor first). Then I was a radio writer – and this came about after I joined a writers’ group called Paines’ Plough. They produced a rehearsed reading of my 45 minute play GIN AND RUM – written in a day, in a writers’ group session – and it was seen by a radio producer who loved it and made it into a radio play. And the rest of my radio oeuevre (as they say) flowed from that.

And finally I became an SF novelist, and my strategy there was – John Jarrold! Best agent ever. I wrote a book, John read it, and sold it. And it strikes me that of all these different fields of writing, novel writing and SF writing is the easiest to ‘break into’ – because there are simply so many places to start, and there isn’t the hostility to newcomers that you get (I’m being utterly candid here) elsewhere. Self-publish; join a writers’ group; write a novel and send it to an agent; attend cons; keep writing. Of course you’ll only succeed if you’re good; but the doors really aren’t closed.

In fact what struck me forcibly at the Birmingham Eastercon is HOW MANY WRITERS THERE ARE.  We had a room full of them in Writing 101.  A blogger who I met last year (Adam Christopher) came up to me and told me he now has several book deals lined up – which I’m thrilled about.  Everyone I met in the bar was a writer or wanted to be a writer. And it’s clear the lines are well and truly blurred.  It’s not a case of fans going to cons to meet writers and wondering how it’s done; EVERYONE is doing it.

Occasionally I wonder – why?  I mean, why do people write? Why do I write? It’s not for the money (hollow laugh!) Although I’ve managed to make a living as a professional writer for, er, 21 years; and some writers of course make millions. (My first ever job was working for TV writer Murray Smith, the only Brit TV writer to earn a million pounds in a year – and that was a long time ago…)  But really, get a job as a dustman and if you average it out, you’ll probably do better financially, and you’ll have a lot less stress.

No, writing is a drug.  And I am a facilitator.  Later today I’m going to London Film School to work with an outstandingly talented group of international students – a Mexican, an American, a Brazilian and a Serb – on their feature film projects, now at first draft stage.  Last term I assessed four other writers on the same course – brimming with talent!  My boss at the London Film School Brian Dunnigan is also of course an accomplished writer – and I’m currently script editing his movie JOURNEY INTO SPACE (of which, more anon.)  I have many many friends who are writers who were formerly my students on other courses (at the National Film and Television School and Leeds Metropolitan University) or who were commissioned by me during my stints as a literary manager and development executive.

The wealth of talent is astonishing. But there is a problem. Yup, you’ve got it – too many writers!  All chasing the same jobs. So that’s why writing as a career really isn’t the shrewdest of choices – be a banker instead!  But it’s not a career of course, it’s a passion.  Writing is something you do because you HAVE to do it.

Why is that? Is it because we learn more about human nature through the act of writing about it? Duh! Writers spend all their time writing; it’s other folk who are out there living life, and learning about human nature!  Do we become wiser, kinder people through the act of writing? Duh! Spend an hour in the bar with a bunch of writers and you’ll soon learn what vain, avaricious, ungrateful oiks we all are.  Does writing make the world a better place? Duh!  Campaigning for world peace or inventing a cure for cancer or setting up a bank that doesn’t fleece its customers would all be ways to make the world a better place. We just write books.

I think I write for the same reason that I read; I love to get lost in different worlds.  And I love to CONNECT with readers  (or viewers, or listeners) in a way that touches their souls, with something I have created.

Books, let’s face it, are like children.  In the case of Peter F. Hamilton, big fat children who talk all the time (and none the worse for that!)   But unlike children, books can be shaped and created and moulded; you can be the god of the book you are writing.

Which is not the case with children. I have one, she’s fifteen years old, and she’s the best thing I’ve ever done.  But she’s not mine; she’s her own creature.  Children – let me be clear about this – are better than books. And living life is more important than writing about it.

And yet – must write that next chapter. I need to know how it comes out!

 Tonight at Sci-Fi London in the Apollo Cinema we’ll hear the result of the Clarke Awards. Here’s the shortlist, with a host of fabulous writers, including fellow Orbit author Tricia Sullivan, author of the memorable and moving Lightborn. 

And, by happy coincidence, Tricia has also written this week’s SFF Song of the Week entry.

Tricia Sullivan writes:

Back in 1997 I woke up at about 5 am in a cheap B&B room in Grimsby.  My roommate had fallen asleep with the TV on, and it was now playing what I believe to this day is the most surreal and SFnal video I have ever seen: the Teletubbies theme song. (please link to this:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NuiynIn-g9s  ) In my hypnogogic state, I was disturbed and frightened by these round, idiotic, cybernetic happiness junkies and their giggling sky-baby ruler.  It made me shudder.  In fact, I’d go so far as to say that the Teletubbies song was my personal equivalent of the shark theme from Jaws. 

Flash forward a bunch of years and you’ll catch me humming this very tune as I help my kids get dressed in the morning.  Tinky-winky!  Dipsy!  La-La!  Po. 

My life is a Philip K. Dick story. 

The truth is, my musical intelligence has been utterly flattened by nearly ten years’ exposure to the musical outpourings of CBBC, Nickelodeon and, even worse, the Disney Channel.  I could try to pass off Hannah Montana’s ‘Best of Both Worlds’ as some sort of deep statement about the nature of human existence, but that would be too feeble even for me.  So if I’m going to play you something, it has to be something I actually connect to in a way that’s at least tangential to SF.  I can think of loads of songs that I collected as a kid specifically because of their SF connotations: ‘Stranger in a Strange Land’ by U2, ‘Invisible Sun’ by the Police (I took it the title literally), ‘Friends’ by the Police (a tribute to Heinlein, and the only song I’ve ever heard with ‘grok’ in the lyrics), ‘Dazzle’ by Siouxie and the Banshees, ‘Indiscipline’ by King Crimson, ‘Star Power’ by Sonic Youth…I could go on and on but Phil said I had to pick one.  Damn.  There’s even ‘I Know What I Like in Your Wardrobe’ by Genesis, which I’d read in a magazine was written from the point of view of a lawn mower, and in my suburban American ignorance I thought this meant, like, a singing gas-powered push mower?  Yeah.  Maybe not.  (I still like my interpretation better than yet another early 70′s prog-rock assault on the English class system).  But Peter Gabriel’s meditation on relativity in the supermarket car park, ‘One Way World’ is genuinely SFnal and I thought about playing it here.

But those songs are all so ooooooolllldddd.  And even stuff like Public Enemy’s ‘Hazy Shade of Criminal’ is no longer groundbreaking or even close, so the aspects that made it science fictional to me when I first heard it are now all water-under-the-bridgey and unconvincing for the purposes of this post.  The fact is, I’m a middle-aged mum with little time or money to explore new sounds.  I sing Teletubbies and Noddy in the car, even when I’m alone.  I’ve been colonized and I can’t pretend otherwise. 

All I can do is play you something that I used to love.  This is Soundgarden, and the track comes from the record Superunknown, which I used to play on headphones a lot.  Over and over.  Really loud.  While writing.  While running.  In the dark.  I have no idea what this song is supposed to ‘mean,’ but I do know that, like everything I love to hear or read or see, it opens a door in what seems to be a wall, and makes new space for the listener.  This track stretches the interior dimensions of my head.  And I figure that’s what the SFnal ethos is all about.

In my eyes,
Indisposed,
In disguise
As no one knows.
Hides the face,
Lies the snake,
And the sun
In my disgrace.
Boiling heat,
Summer stench.
‘Neath the black
The sky looks dead.
Call my name
Through the cream,
And I’ll hear you
Scream again.

Black hole sun,
Won’t you come
And wash away the rain?
Black hole sun,
Won’t you come?
Won’t you come?
Won’t you come?

Stuttering,
Cold and damp,
Steal the warm wind
Tired friend.
Times are gone
For honest men
And sometimes,
Far too long
For snakes.
In my shoes,
A walking sleep,
And my youth
I pray to keep.
Heaven send Hell away,
No one
Sings like you anymore.

Black hole sun,
Won’t you come
And wash away the rain?
Black hole sun,
Won’t you come?
Won’t you come?
(Repeat)

Black hole sun
Black hole sun
Won’t you come?
(Repeat x3)

Black hole sun
Black hole sun

Hang my head,
Drown my fear,
Till you all just
Disappear…

Black hole sun,
Won’t you come
And wash away the rain?
Black hole sun,
Won’t you come?
Won’t you come?
(Repeat x2)

Black hole sun,
Black hole sun,
Won’t you come?
(Repeat x6)

Won’t you come?

If you’re around, do say hi.  I’ll be mainly in the bar (harumph) but I’ll also be in various panels and events. These are:

FRIDAY 22nd:

3pm.  Panel on Policing the High Frontier – a subject close to my heart since Version 43 is all about a cyborg cop who, er, polices the high frontier.

4.30.  Newcon Launch Party in honour of the short story anthology Further Conflicts in which I have a story (‘The Legend of Sharrock’).

Friday evening: Dinner with the Orbit team including (I hope) Mike Cobley, Jon Courtenay Grimwood  & Charles Stross.  Curry is obligatory.

SATURDAY 23rd APRIL

12 noon.  Panel: Crime Fighting in C21:  Is the future of law enforcement Robocop?  Yup, it’s all crime crime crime for me this Eastercon!

1.30.  Panel on  Writing 101: Becoming a Writer

2.30-4.30.  I’ll be attending the T-Party Writers Workshop where I’ll be helping to critique work from 4 new writers.  This is a busman’s holiday sesssion for me, since I’ve spent a large party of my career working with writers, either as a script editor or screenwriting tutor.

6pm Screening of Dr Who.  I won’t be doing anything; just watching it!

7.30-9 BFSA Awards Ceremony

SUNDAY 23rd APRIL

3pm.  Book signing session.

10.30pm – midnight.  Book reading with Palmer & Cobley.  That’s Mike Cobley, of Humanity’s Fire fame. 

MONDAY 24th APRIL

Crawl home…

We also of course discussed that old perennial topic – the way that our genre, science fiction and fantasy, is constantly marginalised by the mainstream media.  Stephen Hunt recently unleashed a scream of rage at this very phenomenon, after a BBC Book Night failed to properly focus on any SFF genre books, focusing instead on thrillers, romances, and literary novels. And DongWon had seen some very belittling comments about the forthcoming HBO series A Game of Thrones, based on George R.R. Martin’s fantasy epic series A Song of  Ice and Fire.  Why is it, we wondered, that our genre is always being patronised by the people who run culture?

But do you know what – I’m beginning to think DongWon and I and all the rest of us have the wrong end of the stick there.  Because when you think about it, who’s winning this war?  I mean of course the war between Genre Fiction and Posh Literary Fiction?  Answer; we are.  We’re not only winning, we’ve damn well won.

Take Exhibit A, that very same George R.R. Martin series.  It’s on HBO – HBO! – and it has a stellar cast including our very own Brit bruiser Sean Bean.  It’s got a great budget, it’s been given a prime slot, and it’s one of the cornerstone programmes on the new Sky Atlantic Channel which also boasts Boardwalk Empire and Blue Bloods.  (The fact that despite having 3,000,o00 channels on my telly available from every electronic orifice I still CAN’T GET SKY ATLANTIC – because I’m with Virgin Vision – and hence can’t see any of these shows till they come out on DVD is a rant best reserved for another day.)  There have been two major profiles of the series on my paper The Guardian – in the main paper and the weekend Guide – both of which were respectful and knowledgable about the genre.  It’s had billboard coverage. It’s a huge media event. HOW IS THAT BEING MARGINALISED? Answer: it’s not really.

Take Exhibit B; the massive success of Lord of the Rings, which has basically bankrolled New Zealand for the last decade and has finally spawned the next Tolkien epic, The Hobbit – which also has been the subject of massive media attention.

Or Take Exhibit C: Marvel Comics.  Marvel Comics were the passion of my childhood, and I always dreamed that one day I’d see a movie that did justice to the extravagant wondefulness of the comics. Well, be careful what you wish for; because we now have X-Men First Class, following on from the previous three X Films, plus the Wolverine Origins movie, plus another Wolverine to come, plus of course Thor (out this month), Captain America: The First Avenger, plus – actually it’s virtually impossible to keep track. I’ve just been reading this month’s Empire magazine which features Kenneth Branagah – once hailed as the next Olivier! – writing about how thrilled he is to be directing the Thor movie.  And it also features James McAvoy – star of Atonement and Shameless, and one of the brightest stars of his generation – talking about how thrilled he is to be playing Professor X, following in the footsteps of his great hero Patrick Stewart, one of the giants of the British stage.  In the same article, Michael Fassbender - star of the great arthouse movie Hunger and another one of the brightest stars of his generation – explains how thrilled he is to be playing Magneto (a character he’d clearly never heard of until he was offered his pay or play deal), following in the footsteps of one of the greatest thespians of all time, Sir Ian McKellen.  Add to that the list of great actors who have been employed in the various Harry Potter movies – Alan Rickman, Ken Branagh, Zoe Wanamaker, Richard Harris, Robert Hardy, Maggie Smith, Michael Gambon, Helena Bonham-Carter, and many many more – and one thing becomes clear.

We’ve won.

In other words, genre fiction IS the mainstream.  And in the movies, the science fiction and fantasy genres rule supreme – if you count superhero movies as SFF, which you should.  So why, oh why, do we insecure thin-skinned genre-ites get so touchy when the BBC or the newspapers belittle our genres?  Who are these people, who presume a cock a snook at us? Answer: They are nobodies.  They are the losers in the war between snobby elitist culture and vibrant exciting popular culture.  And, like all losers, they like to sit on the sidelines sniping. Well, let’s ignore ‘em!

I’m not here arguing against literary fiction or arthouse movies or non-genre television drama series; far from it.  Nor am I saying that the only fiction worth reading is genre fiction – I love great writing of whatever kind. I’m merely saying that this automatic assumption that what’s written in the newspapers or said on the telly is the “mainstream” view is a delusion - on their part, and on ours. These guys are NOT the mainstream; they are a dribbley little rivulet that leads nowhere. [Um, I know nothing about waterways, so forgive me if that metaphor makes no sense.)  But in terms of market dominance, media prominence, and cultural importance – genre fiction, genre movies and genre telly, including but not exclusively SFF stuff – is now where it’s at. 

The internet has also changed everything; bloggers who care about what they are talking about have more importance in the SFF genre that any number of idiots whittering on in broadsheet papers.  And often they write better too.  I still take a huge amount of my cultural information in through my newspaper – but for any detailed commentaries, I’ll go to favourite blogs.  And the very definition of “mainstream culture” relates to WHO GETS TO JUDGE.  Well, the SFF genres have their own judges now; and in any case, word of mouth has always mattered more than any stamp of approval from the “respectable” critics.  (I totally ignore film reviews when it comes to judging which film to see; they are so wrong, so often, that I’ve lost all faith in them.)

But if we’ve won, why doesn’t it feel that way?  Well that’s the class structure of our society for you.  We’re all indoctrinated with insecurity; worried about what our headteacher will say; wanting a pat on the head from Daddy or Mummy to tell us when we’ve been good. (At least, I am like that and always have been  - though my own daughter DOESN’T GIVE TWO HOOTS what I say!) It’s called “cultural cringe”, aka having an inferiority complex. 

So let’s shake that off.  Let’s admit we’ve won, and we’re proud of it.  For when the histories of twenty first century culture are written, epic fantasy, science fiction and speculative fiction will be seen as the predominant culture influences of that era – OUR era.  So hey  – let’s be smug!

I’m still pissed off though that I can’t watch A Game of Thrones  – because Rupert Murdoch has stolen all the good shows and put it in a channel I can’t receive! And another thing [sorry, that rant will have to wait – Ed.)

Refreshingly therefore Kick-Ass wins Best British Film.  It wasn’t even mentioned in the BAFTAs, and according to the bizarre etiquette of the British Film Industry it isn’t considered to be a British film because it was financed with  American money.  But it’s produced and directed by Matthew Vaughn, the Brit who produced Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, then went on to direct the brilliant Layer Cake and the excellent Stardust;  and it’s written by Brit Jane Goldman.  Sure, Vaughn’s production company MARV Films is based in LA, but he’s still British; and his company also recently produced the Brit movie Harry Brown with Michael Caine.  He’s one of ours, guys! 

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1 wins the Longest Title in a Franchise Which I Stopped Watching a While Back award; and also wins best Sci-Fi/Fantasy.  This is because Inception was given Best Film, and they wanted to share the gongs out fairly.

To my regret, there’s no mention of the excellent Repo Men, directed by Miguel Sapochnik and written by Garrett Lerner and Eric Garcia from the novel by Eric Garcia.  For me this was the best Sci-Fi/Fantasy AND the best Comedy of 2010; it’s a black tale of a world in which, if you fail to keep up the payments on your transplanted organ, Repo Men are sent to shoot you with stun guns and rip the organ back out again.  It’s a dazzlingly scary thriller AND it’s funny. And Jude Law is well back on form.  Also not nominated was the slick and exhilarating heist movie Takers, which for my money was far superior to the lachrymose and pretentious (though often very exciting) heist movie The Town, which WAS nominated.

I also think it’s perverse not to give the Best Film Award to True Grit; the most elegantly written, beautifully shot, wonderfully acted film of last year. 

Keira Knightly gets a special award for being Keira Knightly – and she was indeedly unexpectedly excellent in the spooky SF drama Never Let Me Go, also a 2010 release.  And Colin Firth gets his obligatory Best Actor Award for that movie in which the best actor was Geoffrey Rush. (I’m not really sniping – it was a great performance.)

And Bravo!  to Empire for having the balls to have separate genre categories for their awards – it’s a scandal that the Oscars and the BAFTAs so rarely acknowledge the great thrillers, comedies, horrors, and SFF movies that are made each year.

Over to you Rob…

Robert Jackson Bennett writes:

It’s difficult to say much about Tom Waits, because the image precedes the man every time. Which is really quite marvelous, as he’s got at least three images attached to him, depending on which part of his back catalog you’re pulling from: he’s the lovable, down-and-out hipster with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, a walking homage to Kerouac and Bukowski; or, he’s the avant-garde, junkyard carnie barker who works nights as a Weimar-era cabaret performer; or, he’s the dust-covered, hangdog-faced, mythical bluesman who seems to have walked right of the Great Depression, his voice filled with Biblical doom and sorrowful longing. Maybe he’s got yet another metamorphosis up his sleeve, and he’s waiting for the right time to surprise us all.

There are many versions of Tom Waits, and the first thing most people will zero in on is his voice, which critics seem to really enjoy cooking up metaphors for. But there’s another constant underneath all these images, one that usually doesn’t utilize his raspy, savage growl: his ballads. No matter who Tom’s been, he’s always had a sentimental streak, and it always shows up when it comes to one of his ballads, which rarely use the subhuman registers of his pipes.

And for my money, there’s no ballad of his better than “Time,” an unearthly, confusing, fantastical song about… Well. I’m not sure what it’s about. I’m not sure it’s even about time, really, but listen for yourself. [SEE BELOW - Ed]

It’s an unusual song, an impressionistic nonsense-poem full of poignant images tossed among faint but persistent strands of logic, similar to Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky.” Which brings me to another favorite touchstone of Tom’s: children’s stories, songs, and rhymes, and he almost always juxtaposes them against subjects better suited to, say, a Raymond Chandler story or a Bukowski poem. You can hear quite a bit of that influence in “Time,” as certain lines have the same structure as a nursery song rhyme: “…and the band is going home, it’s raining hammers, it’s raining nails,” and “…so put a candle in the window and a kiss upon his lips, as the dish outside the window fills with rain,” are both personal standouts for me. But the melody itself is the most glaring evidence: this is a lullaby, but it’s not one you’d ever sing to a child.

But there seem to be quite a few people out there who think Snyder is the embodiment of heartless soulless film-making…

Anyway, the film is now out in UK cinemas, so I’m looking forward to seeing it, so I can judge for myself.

It’s a very funny piece but – hey! – don’t you think he’s kind of getting into it by the end?   He imagines all the possible ways he could crush and undermine other writers – by dissing said writers to his publisher, or by flaming them on the internet; and reluctantly concludes that a) he wouldn’t have the time to be that evil and b) people might think he’s a dick and stop selling and buying his books.

That, if you don’t mind me saying so John, is not the strongest of arguments in favour of not being evil.  I haven’t got time, and I might get caught! 

In fact, as we all know, John Scalzi is the nicest and most generous of authors.  Not like [REDACTED] or the even more odious [REDACTED] or that manipulative bastard [REDACTED] whose abysmal novels are still published by that cynical imprint [REDACTED] Books.But hey, I kind of sense that John  half wishes he did have time and technique to be actually evil.  No more Mr Nice Guy! 

For the record, I personally know of no cabal of authors denying opportunities to other authors, as is reputed to exist in the YA world.  But I do know some terrible stories.  For instance [REDACTED]

Actually, in truth, publishing is a very civilised world.  And most novelists I’ve met are incredibly generous to up and coming writers.  Jon Courtenay Grimwood, for instance, did me a big favour by writing a nice testimonial about Debatable Space before it was published.  And I know of several writers who’ve been given a leg-up by established masters - because, oddly, novelists don’t compete with each other. Someone who reads a Jon Courtenay Grimwood may also read a Philip Palmer, or a John Scalzi; if you love reading, there’s time enough to read lots.

In telly, it’s much tougher; there are only so many slots on air, and far too many writers chasing them.  And the use of  ‘parachute’ commissions (ie commissioning eight episodes for a series that will only be broadcasting six, meaning 2 scripts are destined for the bin) means there is an ugly sense of each writer wanting to do down the other guy – in order to get that vital screen credit.  That’s why you get some terrible, career-destroying behaviour from writers who should know better – such as when [REDACTED}

This blog can be read in full on Wikileaks….

Harumph. 

The piece made me start to mull about fashions in covers – from active to passive.  In other words, instead of rip-roaring action scenes, these days we tend to get kick-ass heroines in jeans being pensive; or wizards in hoods, being pensive.  Such covers are often splendid, but I do hanker a little after the old days of bravura SFF art. 

I also wondered about what my my own personal favourite cover would be, if someone asked me that question – which, er, they haven’t.  But that’s not going to stop me answering!

 Brazyl by Ian Mcdonald comes close – I’m thinking of the early cover that looks like like the Rio Carnival in cover form.   But I’ve decided my favourite ever cover is this:

This is a work of art, not just a cover – and it’s ACTIVE.  The artist is Tim Bradstreet.  (For a better and bigger image of it, click here.)

More on covers in a little while…I’m planning to do a wee retrospective of the covers of the great Jim Burns in a few weeks time. In the meantime, a question:

What’s YOUR favourite SFF cover ever?

This is the first in which I hope will be a series of short stories and flash fiction pieces featuring characters and ideas to be found in Hell Ship.  These are creatures from other universes; strange, marvellous, and sometimes terrible. And what follows is a story told by the great warrior of Maxolu – Sharrock! 

Sharrock and the Ghost of Pethgore

I woke that morning and discovered that the icy ledge had started to melt beneath me.  I stood up and the ledge cracked and fell a thousand barats or more.  I was left dangling from the ropes which I had, the night before, secured to the rock face.

I shook the sleep out of my brain and swung myself towards the rock and crashed against the sheer mountain face.  The claws on the tips of my gloves gouged hard into the ice.  I extended the spikes on my boots to further secure my embrace of the towering cliff. Then I continued upwards,  like a pantathecon using its claws to climb a tree.   

A shalia bird hovered close to me for most of my morning’s climb, caught in updrafts, curiously eyeing me; no doubt calculating how much meat there was on my bones.  Once it tried to perch on my shoulders and I brushed it off.

The free-climbing was tiring, and the going was treacherous.  Lichen grew in the ice, weakening it perilously;  the winds shook my body relentlessly.  

I surmounted the crag and found myself on a vast glacier that led to the next mountain peak.  I leaped a huge crevasse in the ice and landed badly, but managed not to fall.  Then I saw before me,  as white upon whiteness, a carpet of bones; the intact skeletons of former climbers. All that was left of them after being eaten (whether alive or dead I did not know) by the shalia birds.  These birds could eat flesh and leather and even backpacks.  And a flock of them hovered now in the air above me; and, emboldened, plunged down upon me screeching and pecking at me with their scimitar-jaws.  

But I drew my blade and I hacked at their feathers and flesh in the swiftest of rhythms; and every slash hit its mark, and blood rained down upon me.  And when the flock became too dense I switch on my forceshield, and reversed the energy flow.  And then the flesh of ths shalias burned and the air blackened, and the remainder of the flock fled in despair.

These creatures posed no real danger to a Maxolun warrior. Something else, I concluded,  had killed these climbers.  And then, once their forceshields had finally ebbed, had the shalia birds dined.

I crossed the glacier and commenced a new climb up sheer ice and rock. But then just for a moment, I looked back, and down, and saw how far I would fall, if I were to release my grip for just a moment. 

Normally heights do not perturb me. But on this occasion I felt a pang of anxiety; and perhaps even fear. But I stemmed my doubts, and carried on upwards.

My food and water implants sustained me during the long ascent; and when I reached the summit of this highest peak I felt a surge of joy. 

The joy did not last.  There were more skeletons at the summit.  Mountains of bones atop the mountain of ice.  I saw also a clutter of discarded sunfire guns and ropes and tents, left by those destroyed by the Ghost of Pethgore.

I shook the stiffness out of my limbs, and admired the view. Pethgore was a planet of mist and ice and swamps;  but the sun’s rays cut through it all, like laughter in a  child.

I sensed rather than saw the ghost, and I swiftly turned and pointed at it, as if accusing.  My fingers were too stiff to fire a weapon, but I had sunfire blasters built into the arms of my body armour, to be triggered by a murmured command. 

But the ghost could not be seen. It swirled around me. It made my hearts contract in fear; it made my ice-cold bones even colder.

I fired both arms – first the right and then the left, and then the right again – and a scream of pain rent my eardrums. But the scream turned to a laugh; I had missed.

Rage enveloped me and I screamed too.  Never had I felt such hate – not since my father – never since –

I howled like an animal. And I wept.  And I could feel the creature’s hate in my soul now; hate gnawing me like jaws upon a bone  And I marvelled at this, as my bowels snarled up and piss flooded out of me.  My fists flailed wildly, and chunks of ice were blasted off the neighbouring peaks by my wild sunfire blasts.  My rage grew and -

And then I realised what was happening.

No one had ever survived an encounter with the ghost of Pethgore; I now knew why.

So I turned my hate inwards; and I stifled it. I lowered my arms. 

And I allowed love to enter my soul.   

The ghost responded with surprise, alarm, then delight. 

 I could see the creature now; it hovered before me, like balls of lightning seen through gauze.  An energy being of some kind; an empath.  It would respond to hate with hate, love with love.

 I had no desire to slay the ghost of Pethgore; the experience of knowing it was all that I sought.

 And now I allowed the deepest awe to fill my soul, as I stood on the summit of this great ice-mountain and looked down at the astonishing vista of Pethgore. Below me  rain began to fall softly on the suppurating swamps; a rainbow spanned the horizon,  and I saw within it colours I had never seen before.

 The ghost encircled me; it enfolded me; it supped of my emotions – my awe, my joy, my zest for life. 

 And for a few precious moments,  I and the ghost of Pethgore were as one.

If you missed it, the best thing on telly last year was Misfits on E4. A superhero show; a comedy; a dark drama – it had it all.  Ace script reader and writer Danny Stack wrote with insight and a fan’s true enthusiasm about the magnificent series 1 on this site a while back.  And I think the second series – culminating in a Christmas special of blasphemous hilarity – was a stand-out.

Misfits tells the story of a bunch of Asbos with superpowers.  There’s Nathan who’s gobby and immortal.  Kelly, who’s gobby and telepathic.  Simon, who’s a nerd, socially incompetent, and has the power of invisibility.  The beautiful Alisha, who has the power to drive men and women mad with desire if she touches them -which means she can’t ever touch ANYONE.  And the athletic and often be-vested Curtis, who has the power to turn back time; but it rarely works.

These are pretty stupid superpowers.  And, what’s more, these are the most useless superheroes you’ve ever met.  All this makes it  more subversive than Kick-Ass – because it never plays by the rules of the superhero genre at ANY point. These dorks blunder their way through from one crisis to another, often accidentally murdering people along the way. Oh and they’re rude, and socially maladjusted; that’s why they got served with Asbos! [For US readers - an Asbo is a court order made against someone who hasn't necessarily broken the law, but has in some way been a jerk.)

The show is made by Clerkenwell Films; and it was developed by creative producer and Head of Drama Petra Fried, a friend and former colleague (from our days as development executives at Scottish Televison.)  She had the guts to back writer Howard Overman's lunatic vision; and she's helped to create what is, in my view, one of the greatest TV shows ever. Up there with Buffy - but ruder, and even funnier.

I can't say more because I really don't want to get tangled up in plot spoilers.  Catch up with it if you've missed it. And here are some pics:

Nathan dressed as Santa

Alisah, realising she's sold her power to make people horny to the wrong guy.

Curtis in a vest

Kelly, the telepathic chav

Simon and Alisha, spattered in afterbirth. Don't ask!

The mysterious superhoodie...

This is a triptych (the Harbaville triptych): 

And this is also a triptych, by   Francis Bacon:

And this is MY triptych:

Okay, it’s a vertical triptych not a horizontal one, but the basic principle is the same:  three different things that together add up to one big thing.  But it doesn’t matter in which order you look at or read them.

READ MORE.

I caught a blog on Jeff Somers’ site a while back,  extolling the marvellousness of a micro-budget SF movie called MONSTERS. And I finally managed to catch up with it this week. It’s a tremendous, playful, imaginative, and very beautiful fillm. A lot of micro-budget movies – like OPEN WATER, the one where the characters are trapped in shark-infested waters, or even THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT – have a deliberately grungey and verite look to them, making a virtue of the lack of finance. MONSTERS interestingly plays a different game. It is beautifully shot, richly coloured, splendidly art designed, and entirely cinematic. The special effects are great, the monsters are superbly rendered. It’s a shock really to see such utterly classy cinema entertainment made for less than half a million dollars.

The story is simple: aliens have invaded the bit between Mexico and the United States, which is now called the Infected Zone. And our photographer hero (played by Scoot McNairy) has to take his boss’s daughter (played by Whitney Able) to safety. It’s that simple; but the joy of the premise is that you get time to enjoy the chemistry between these two delightful and unaffacted actors. The film for much of the time is like a deranged travelogue, ‘My Holiday in Mexico Where, Oops, there are Aliens.’ These two are the only named characters; and the camera loves them, and I love them too.

Film-maker Gareth Edwards (who wrote, directed, lit, and art designed the whole shebang) avoids the familiar cliche of ‘not showing the aliens’ (which got so tedious in CLOVERFIELD.) So we do see the aliens, early on; but not often. And most of the time the alien presence is evoked by oblique means. A jeep stuck up a tree. A US fighter plane sunk in the lake.  (Remember how Spielberg played it in WAR OF THE WORLDS, where Tom Cruise sees bodies floating down the river – we don’t see them die, but it’s a hundred times scarier than watching action stuff.)

And signs – this is a film that’s all about sign. ’15KM to the Infected Zone’, a sign will tell us. The UK poster (above) plays on that, with its casual  warning about the ‘Extra-Terrestrial Infected Zone.’   And these techniques make the horror of it feel so real; in the mundanest and most chilling of ways.

Edwards is now making a remake to GODZILLA. Some call this a sell-out. I say – hurrah! Bring it on!

This thought is prompted by a piece I just read in Guardian On-Line about the difference between genre fiction and literary fiction.  My paper today is full of approving comments about the article, by novelist Edward Docx, and I thought I’d check it out. Over the years,  I’ve read so many pieces chewing over this so-called divide between genre writing and literary writing, and I wondered if this guy had something new to say.

No he did not. His entire argument is a blend of sophistry, stupidity, and ignorance.  Here it is.

Docx’s argument fails on every level.  It is just exasperating to see such muddle-headed thinking in a reputable portal.  And yet the guy is clearly very clever! He references the modern writers he loves -  Franzen, Coetzee, Hollinghurst, Amis, Mantel, Proux, Ishiguro, Roth – and it’s a damned good list. He’s clearly well read.  I’ve read some of those writers, but not all.  Hollinghurst and Ishighuro are great.  There’s actually no such writer as ‘Proux’ (in Britain we call this paper the Grauniad, because of its frequent typos) but Annie Proulx is certainly a fab writer.  I’ve never read Philip Roth or Hilary Mantel and I know I should. I read one Cotezee and didn’t rate it that highly.    I HATE Martin Amis, so there you go. Jonathan Franzen is flavour of the moment; maybe he’s fabulous.  But I’ll refrain from having an opinion about his work UNTIL I’ve read it.

So, Docx knows his stuff; he reads widely and deeply within the genre in which he writes ie literary fiction.  Good for him.  But there’s no excuse really for the way he generalises about genres of which he  knows very little.  Because all he’s doing really is flattering the common bigotry among some members of the ‘litarati’ against popular genre fiction. At the same time, he’s being deliberately provocative in order to generate debate and increase the sales of his own novels – which is fair enough! But though he writes well and wittily and readably, I really think there’s no excuse for the stupidity he manifests.

Here is my list of the stupid things he says, and my views on why they are stupid.

1)  Dan Brown and Stiegg Larsson are guilty of ‘amateurishness’, and their books are ‘mesmerisingly bad’. 

To prove this point, Docx quotes some bad writing from both authors.  It IS really bad writing, let’s be honest about it. But that doesn’t mean these guys are amateurs.  Brown served his apprenticeship as a thriller writer over a period of years before hitting it big with The Da Vinci Code. And, though it’s a bad book in my view (crap characters, terrible dialogue, terrible prose, ludicrous ending) it’s still a magnificent piece of storytelling.  Each page is structured to snag and snare the reader; each chapter poses a mystery to be solved in the next chapter, like a computer game where you move from level to level  (as one critic observed.)  And Brown boldly mixes fiction with dense amounts of fact in a way that is daring, and remarkably successful.  It’s a bad book but a great piece of storytelling; when I read it, I couldn’t put it down.  So ‘mesmerisingly bad’ may be fair comment, but to call Brown an ‘amateur’ is like saying Jeffrey Archer is a model of probity.  STUPID.

And Stiegg Larsson is an entirely other kettle of fish.  He’s a raw writer – he was not a professional novelist when he started out, he was a journalist, and it shows.  Some chunks of his Millennium trilogy are ponderously written. He gives us too many facts. Some chapters read more like travelogue than prose fiction. And yet! He has a story to tell, and displays passion in his telling. Rather than being guilty of ‘cod feminism’ as Docx says (what an utterly cheap and nasty gibe!  Larsson put his life on the line for his principles, and campaigned vehemently against the oppression and enslavement of women by traffickers and pimps – Docx is just another bloody writer!)  Larsson is driven by genuine idealism.  And that passion and idealism are part of what seize the reader.  We love his books because the stakes are high, the politics is murky, and he makes us care about what he cares about. Also, his storytelling, though baggy and a bit repetitive, is brilliant.  He conjures up a complex series of interlocking worlds, he runs stories in parallel to exhilarating effect, and he blends the realistic with the thriller-exaggerative with consummate care. This guy is a damned good writer; anyone who doesn’t realise that doesn’t know how to read books.

Docx’s sneer, however, is the disdain of the literary stylist for the writer who has a rough-and-ready prose style. And fair enough,  if I were compiling my own list of great writers, the quality of their prose would be a major consideration for me. 

But to counter Docx, here is an another example of bad prose style (or so I would argue)  from an English public-school-educated author:

Keith Talent was a bad guy. Keith Talent was a very bad guy.  You might even say that he was the worst guy.  But not the worst, not the very worst ever.  There were worse guys. Where? There in the hot light of Cost Check for example, with car keys, beige singlet, and a six-pack of Peculiar Brews, the scuffle at the door, the foul threat and the elbow in the black neck of the wailing lady, then the car with its rust and its waiting blonde, and off to do the next thing, whatever, whatever necessary. The mouths on these worse guys – the eyes on them.  Within those eyes a tiny unsmiling universe.  No. Keith wasn’t that bad.

And here’s an example of fine prose, also from an English public-school-educated author:

The first time I ever laid eyes on Terry Lennox he was drunk in a Rolls Royce Silver Wraith outside the terrace of The Dancers.  The parking lot attendant had brought the car out and he was still holding the door open because Terry Lennox’s left foot was still dangling outside, as if he had forgotten he had one.  He had a young-looking face but his hair was bone white.  You could tell by his eyes that he was plastered to the hairline, but otherwise he looked like any other nice young man in a dinner jacket who had been spending too much money in a joint that exists for that purpose and no other.

The first quote is from London Fields, by that esteemed literary talent Martin Amis; the second is from The Long Good-Bye by one of the greatest of genre writers,  Raymond Chandler.

Both conjure up a seedy milieu, and both describe a character who exists in that milieu. But Amis SHOWS OFF.  He piles repetition upon repetition upon repetition upon – you get the idea.  Bad guy; worst guy; worst guy; worst ever – it’s random repetition, with no poetry.  Then he loses himself  in a massive rambling sentence that makes no sense and obeys no rules of grammar:  we’re invited to visualise a ‘worse guy’ standing in CostCheck, but then comes the phrase, ‘the scuffle at the door’.  It doesn’t work; is the ‘worse guy’ RESPONSIBLE for a scuffle at the door? The prose doesn’t say so! and why is this worse guy putting his elbow in the neck of the wailing lady?  If he’s a pimp and she’s a whore, he might grab her arm – but an elbow-strike?  And is the wailing lady’s neck  black because she’s of African extraction, or it just her neck that’s  black?  Is she perhaps  a pie-bald whore with a broken neck, wailing even though her larynx is shattered? What exactly are we being asked to visualise here? And then we reach my favourite line: ‘Within those eyes a tiny unsmiling universe.’  Okay, metaphorically speaking, eyes can smile; but universes CAN’T. They just can’t! Trust me on this, I’m an SF writer!  So the fact the universe in the eyes of this bozo isn’t smiling is actually a GOOD thing, not a bad thing.  And by the way, the tone is all wrong; it doesn’t evoke its milieu in any way, nor does it give me any real sense of what this idiot Keith Talent is like.

Compare that with the Chandler quote.  It’s deceptively simple, but full of poetry.  Amis uses the word ‘car’; Chandler creates a poem out of ‘Rolls Royce Silver Wraith.’  Say it out loud; Cole Porter would have loved that line.  He writes with calm matter-of-factness , but then tells us that Lennox is dangling his left foot as if he didn’t know he had one; and suddenly we can see it, and also feel it. The negligent insouciance of the guy is so great he’s forgotten he has a foot!  And there’s no universe in his eyes, smiling or otherwise, but you can tell by his eyes he is ‘plastered to the hairline’, a phrase I only know from here but which I love.

Then the last line, which gives the lie to the notion that the hard-boiled writers of the pulps only ever used terse, Hemmingwayesque prose:  it’s a long sinuous line that goes on forever, with the plainest of words, creating a rhythm like music:

‘otherwise he looked like any other nice young man in a dinner jacket who had been spending too much money in a joint that exists for that purpose and no other.’

All of which demonstrates that some genre writers write beautiful prose, and some literary writers perpetrate shit prose. BUT THIS IS NOT THE POINT.

The point is, you can’t judge writing entirely by the quality of the writing. Chekhov is a fine writer, with beautiful dialogue; Eugene O’Neill is a clunky writer who spews out masses of hugely expositional dialogue. They’re both great writers!  ‘Greatness’ in writing is a combination of many things; the quality of the prose, the quality of the story, the richness of the ideas, the power of the ideas, and HOW MUCH WE DO OR DON’T LOVE IT.  I honestly think that Dashiell Hammet’s Red Harvest is a greater novel that Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, because it speaks more to ME.  But they are, however, both brilliant books – one a ‘genre’ piece, one written before these genre/literary distinctions came into force, but which is essentially a literary novel AND a crime novel. 

2. Genre fiction is inherently mediocre.

Docx argues: ‘in my view, we need urgently to remind ourselves of – for want of better terminology – the difference between literary and genre fiction; because, to misquote the literary essayist Isaac D’Israeli, “it seems to me a wretched national compulsion to be gratified by mediocrity when the excellent lies before us”.’

This is when I start to get seriously annoyed.  We all – those of us who write blogs – spout bollocks from time to time,  because it’s fun.  But this goes beyond the realms of acceptable bollocksness. THIS IS NOT AN ARGUMENT.  It’s just bigotry.  Or rather, sophistry;  Docx’s sentence begins by attempting to define the difference between literary and genre fiction, but does nothing of the sort; instead it uses the excuse of a quotation to lob in the words ‘mediocre’ and ‘excellent’, with the clear but utterly unproved implication that literary = excellent, genre = mediocre.  It is the argumentative equivalent of tarring and feathering;  the word ‘mediocre’ is affixed by linguistic sleight of hand to the phrase ‘genre fiction’, and bingo, a prejudice has been birthed.

To argue back against this drivel, it’s necessary to propose some definitions and clarifications. 

Firstly, genre is a taxonomy, not a value judgement.  Thus, Bleak House is a detective novel because it has a detective in it; 1984 is a science fiction novel, because it’s an extrapolative novel of the future.    A novel with monsters and ghoulies, however, badly written it may be, is a horror story.  If you’re an academic writing about fiction, you need some way to differentiate; genre definitions allow you to do this. Or, if you’re in a bookshop looking for novels of the kind you love, then the genre markers – CRIME, SF & FANTASY etc, help you in this endeavour.  The fact the books are published at all is some kind of quality threshold; but but only to a degree.  But genre is, basically, a genus.

In addition, however,  any academic study of literature ie FICTION has to make some attempt to define a ‘canon’ of best books.  Because otherwise, what’s the point of being an academic? You diss the crap books, praise the best; that’s the job. 

 However, because language is a sloppy thing, we also use the word ‘literature’ as a value judgement not just as a genre taxonomy.  So we might talk about ‘the genre of literary novels’ (which consists of various traditions), in a wholly neutral way. But we might also say, ‘The novels of Gene Wolfe/Raymond Chanlder/Fill Your Own Name In Here are great examples of their genre, and they are also great literature.’  In that context, literature = excellence.  Which is fine; that’s the way the word is being used.

To argue however that all genre fiction  is mediocre shows such a stunning degree of ignorance that I’m tempted to write to Mr Docx’s mum and tell her to scold her errant child.  It’s like dismissing jazz as the inferior of 20th century classical music. 

But how do we define what is and isn’t a ‘great’ genre novel?  Well, of course, that’s where the fun and games begin. Everyone has their own opinions.  But I would argue that – as in all matters to do with genre – it all depends on context. 

So let’s say our context is an academic one.  I no longer teach at a University, and when I did my courses were more vocational than academic (ie screenwriting.) But even so, I’ve studied English literature at University. And in my days as a part-time academic, I’ve published articles on movies and genres;  and I believe I get the idea of what literature academics, at their best, should do.  They should inform; illuminate; and describe.  And part of that task is to define a ‘canon’ of best works and DEFEND IT in argument. 

There was a time when having a canon of ‘great works’ was considered elitist; phooey. Please don’t take ALL the fun out of life.

But a canon of 20th century literature that excludes Margery Allingham,  Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Orwell’s 1984,  Theodore Sturgeon,  Gene Wolfe, Philip Pullman, Stephen King,  Ursula LeGuin, and Neil Gaiman – to name just a few! come on guys, don’t send me abusive emails just because your name isn’t mentioned there -  would be a piss-poor sort of a list.  Of course, you can only truly compare like with like; but these are all literate and literary writers with wonderful prose styles, whose works reach beyond the quotidian into the realms of the sublime, and, you know, blood, all that shit. If I were teaching English at a University, that would be the beginnings of MY canon – mixed in of course with all the established literary greats of that century. 

And yet – if I were to make a list of my FAVOURITE genre writers, it would include all the above, but also some others.  Would I make a case for Robert E. Howard being a major 20th century writer, deserving of a place in the canon?  Well, after a few drinks maybe, but perhaps not.  But on the other hand – he’s a great writer.  Fabulous prose style. Resonant ideas. Great stories. In fact, maybe I’m just being snobbish; discuss!

The ‘discuss’ bit is what makes academic studies alive and vital; everything can be discussed, and should be.  So if you’re an academic and you want to argue that Conan the Barbarian is one of the great cultural artefacts of the 20th century – then go ahead! I truly want to hear that argument.

But the point that Docx totally doesn’t grasp is that OTHER PEOPLE ARE ENTITLED TO LOVE WHAT THEY LOVE.  I was at a forum recently run by the excellent group Spread the Word at which a distinguished poet and dramatist called Malika Booker stood in front of a large audience of book-lovers and argued, with incredible passion and erudition, that romantic fiction is the greatest genre ever. Because it’s the genre that SHE loves.  She carried an arm full of books with garish covers up to the podium; she spoke with total authority; she even explained the various plot models of the different sub-genres of romantic fiction – ie nurse/doctor romantic fiction, contemporary romantic fiction,  etc etc.  Her summaries of the story archetypes were hilarious, and she grinned sheepishly as it became apparent how dumb these things sound when spoken out loud. But the point remains; SHE IS RIGHT.  This is a lady who is clearly extemely well read, has established herself as a literary figure of real credibility, and yet for soul-food she turns to books in the romantic genre, many of which would be considered ‘trashy’ by readers from outside that genre.  You can make fun of these books, without doubt; you could quote passages of bad prose, I’m sure.  But that doesn’t gainsay the fact that these stories MATTER for millions of readers.  And though I don’t ever read these novels – I’m talking Mills & Boone here, not the more ‘respectable’ stuff! – I understand that in the context of ‘people who read genre novels because they love to read’, this is a very important genre.

This is why and how  Docx falls on his arse.  He thinks the academic context is the only context.  He thinks life is like a football game in which nerdy bookish people get to pick the team.  WRONG.  The academic context is only one of many contexts – and it’s a good one! It’s one perspective from which one can discuss works of fiction.  But when you’re in the book shop and you’re desperate to buy a book to read on holiday that will enthrall you and allow you to be oblivious to the fact that your Spanish hotel has rats and no swimming pool – well, then the Best Book may well be Dan Brown or Stiegg Larsson. 

3. ‘We need to be clear-eyed’.

This is one of the stupidest things Docx says, and I’ll quote it in full:

We need to be clear-eyed here because although there is much written about this subject, there is also much theatricality to the debate. And this serves to hide (on both sides) a fundamental dishonesty. The proponents of genre fiction are not sincere about the limitations even of the best of what they do while being scathing and disingenuous about literary fiction (there’s no story, nothing happens etc). Meanwhile, the (equally insincere) literary proponents say either: “Oh, don’t blame us, it’s the publisher’s fault – they label the books and we really don’t see the distinction”; or, worse, they adopt the posture and tone of bad actors delivering Shakespeare and talk of poetry and profundity without meaning a great deal or convincing anyone. Both positions are bogus and indicative of something (also interesting) about the way we talk of literature and culture more widely.

What is he actually saying here?  And who is he referring to?  Why are proponents of genre fiction not sincere about the limitations of even the best of what they do?  What limitations?  Every great novel is limited by not being that which it isn’t; der!  And okay I guess I have read pieces sneering at literary fiction – I did it myself above, writing about Martin Amis! But the argument surely is that there are charlatans out there who are acclaimed as great writers without even being all that good.  But Salman Rushdie, for instance, is a great literary writer who DOES writes books with a story; stuff does happen in his novels, and then some! I would say the same about Ishiguro.  These are great writers; and they write fictions which sometimes can and sometimes can’t be described by genre categories. (Though Midnight’s Children is certainly ‘magic realist’, and Remains of the Day is a ‘period novel’, if you do want to categorise them – the label doesn’t make them better or worse.)

4.  Genre writers are rich bastards and impoverished geniuses like me are jealous of them

Well okay, Docx doesn’t ACTUALLY say this, but it’s implied in every paragraph of his diatribe.  In particular, he says:

This is why genre writers cannot claim to have everything. They can take the money and the sales and all that goes with that. And we can sincerely admire them for doing so. But they should not be allowed to get away with suggesting that these things tell us anything about the intrinsic value or scope of their work.

Oh come on!  Firstly, we genre writers CAN say anything we darned well like, thank you very much.

And secondly, some ‘literary’ writers are stinking rich; while many genre writers earn less in a year than Martin Amis spent on his teeth.  Docx is muddling up two things here; the concept of ‘genre’, and the concept of  ’best-seller.’  Different things.

5. Burgers are all the same

I can’t be bothered to quote this in full – scroll down the piece if you want to read his actual words.  But he embarks upon an elaborate metaphor about ‘line-caught eel lasagne’ and burgers which is meant to prove, er, that line-caught eel lasagne is better? I’m sorry; I feel the vomit in my mouth just typing the words. Would anyone eat such a thing?

Burgers, for the record, do in fact differ considerably; there are good burgers, and there are mediocre burger; and there are the rat burgers you get at fairs which give you stomach poisoning. And there are lamb burgers, some with coriander, and (ENOUGH ABOUT BURGERS – ED.)

The only thing I can glean from this metaphor is that, at the end of the day, it’s all about snobbery.  A gourmet meal at the Manoir aux Quatre Saisons is better than fish and chips in a newspaper on the beach at Brixham, in the world according to Docx.   But do you know what? It isn’t. Sometimes simple food is nicer than poncey food. 

6.  Genre writing is inferior because it has more constaints

This at least is a decent argument. I don’t agree with it, but I accept it IS an argument. Here’s the argument in full:

‘even good genre (not Larsson or Brown) is by definition a constrained form of writing. There are conventions and these limit the material. That’s the way writing works and lots of people who don’t write novels don’t seem to get this’

I’ve read a few comments referring to Shakespeare and sonnets in relation to this generalisation; I don’t think there’s an awful lot more to be said about it. I guess what he’s arguing is that those who write literary fiction deserve extra credit because they have to work ‘without constaints’, like a tightrope walker without a net; and that when it fails, it’s REALLY bad.  But frankly – really bad genre novels are also REALLY bad.  And you don’t get extra marks for trying and failing.  You only get credit when you try and fail, then TRY AGAIN and succeed.  Otherwise, failed writers would rule the world.

So, six stupid things! Grrr.

But at this point, I have to say - just in case Docx is reading my piece – look, I’m sorry if the tone of this blog is intemperate, and downright rude.  I’m sure in real life Docx is a lovely guy; and I’ve been told his novels are very good.  And he HAS  had the gumption to get a controversial opinion piece into the Guardian, and hence amp up his profile and his sales – and good luck to him there!  But I’m not being insulting just for the hell of it; I am genuinely affronted that such bad arguing is being treated seriously in a reputable paper.  The debate deserves better than this.

And in all honesty, I do have to concede that my own literary reading is pretty infrequent these days – there aren’t enough hours in the day!  I mainly read genre, and mainly SF and fantasy.  Because that’s my area of work. So if someone more well read than me insists that Jonathan Franzen is indeed an infinitely better writer than, say, Fritz Leiber, then I will yield to that opinion quite happily. But I know that Fritz Leiber IS a fabulous writer; a great storyteller; and a fine stylist.

But is he a GREAT writer? Worthy of inclusion in the canon of English literature? Should the works of the creator of Grey Mouser and Fafrhd be included in the syllabus of courses in 20th century literature, along with the novels of E.M.Forster and D.H. Lawrence and James Joyce?

Well, you know, maybe they should.

Discuss…

I’m a great lover of comic books and graphic novels – my particular favourites are Spider-Man and the X-Men – though these days I never seem to find time to read all the comics that are out there. But I’ve just read a comic book compilation – Exogenetic, an X-Men story by Warren Ellis, that’s totally blown me away.

Warren is the subversive and so-evil-we-love-him creator of Spider Jerusalem, hero of the Transmetropolitan books; and the recent movie RED is based on another of his creations.  And his X-Men story is set after M-Day,  in a world where only a few hundred mutants survive.  Now I haven’t been following that story strand in any detail so I’m playing catch-up here; but the book works whether you know the backstory or not.

Exogenetic tells the tale of an evil villain, with a dastardly plan. And it features the X-Men including Miss Frost and Armor in frequent battles against, among others, the Brood, working  in alliance with the Beast’s girlfriend Abigal Brand of S.W.O.R.D.  I can’t – or rather won’t – say any more than that, because the joy of the book is in the density of its always startling unfolding storyline.  The pace is fast, the monsters are appalling, and the frequent aerial combat scenes are breath-taking.  I was gripped, shocked, appalled, and sobered by the brilliant denouement.

The dialogue is edgy and funny, the characters are vivid, Scott Summers has a stick up his arse, Wolverine grumbles…it’s all great stuff.  And the visuals are extraordinary and utterly cinematic.  Pencils are by Phil Jiminez. inks are by Andy Lanning; and the effects are remarkable.  I’ve not seen this before – but maybe that’s  because I’m out of touch a little – but they achieve an amazing blurred focus effect which perfectly mimics the shallow focus effect you get in movies – where the edges of the frame and the background are blurred, while the centre is perfectly focused.  And the colours are extraordinary – with vivid yellows in the battle scenes that remind me of some of the climactic scenes in the last series of Battlestar Galactica.  There are a number of full page spreads, which are among the best examples comic book art I’ve ever seen.

This is my best comic book of the year.  Here are a couple of frames to give you a taster:

The FT.com website has a summary version of the feature, here.

And check out that fancy new cover, which for the moment is only available for the e-book edition:

Now that’s a sexy image!

This is the logo for a fasinating workshop being organised by arts organisation Spread the Word.  The day is titled Guilty Pleasures,  and features a mix of workshops and masterclasses and competitions.  I’m doing a morning workshop on world-building – a subject close to my heart having just created AN INFINITE NUMBER OF UNIVERSES for my latest novel Hell Ship.  Nicci Gerard and Sean French will be dealing with thriller writing; Catherine King is running a workshop on romantic fiction. And fantasy author James Barclay is doing a masterclass on fights and battle scenes which I can’t afford to miss..

Sci-Fi London’s Louis Savy will also be discussing his own guilty pleasures…hope to see some of you there.

And here’s Lauren Panepinto’s hilarious account of how she created it.   I MEAN, this lady is crazy – but in a good way!

I signed a batch of copies, and even if you don’t live in the Fresh Air Suburb of Crystal Palace you can get a copy from Crow by using their cunning online order service. 

There may also be some kind of Version 43 signing event at Crow in the not too distant future…